The World Before Us
by ariel2me
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets inspired by Fire & Blood.
1. Jeyne Arryn x Jessamyn Redfort

_Across the width of Westeros, another struggle for succession broke out late in the year 134, when Lady Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale, died at Gulltown of a cold that had settled in her chest. Forty years of age, she perished in the Motherhouse of Maris on its stony island in the harbor of Gulltown, wrapped in the arms of Jessamyn Redfort, her "dear companion." (Fire & Blood)_

* * *

 **Jeyne Arryn/Jessamyn Redfort**

They told the story to one another on every anniversary of their first act of coupling. Some of the details would be spiritedly contested ( _no, it certainly did not happen that way,_ one would say, while the other would insist, _of course it did, it most certainly did_ ) or misremembered (a first kiss that lasted barely the space of two breaths became a long, lingering kiss that left them both gasping for air), but the essence of it remained the same, always.

The essence of their story, of their love and intimacy, of their bond and trust. Jeyne and Jessa. Jessa and Jeyne. The Maiden of the Vale and her more than just "dear companion."

"Once there was a lonely girl who lived high up the mountain, in the castle Eyrie," Jeyne would begin.

"A nominal ruler of a great land since she was three," Jessamyn would continue, with a grin as wide as saucer.

"It is not a song or a poem. It does not have to rhyme," Jeyne would tease.

"My stories _always_ rhyme," Jessamyn would reply, with mock-outrage.

The guardian of this lonely girl (who was also the regent and lord protector of her land during the years of her minority) brought many girls from the noble houses sworn to the Eyrie to be her companions. These girls, most of them having brothers, were expected by their families to extol and promote the virtues and attractions of those brothers in front of the lonely girl, with matrimony in mind.

"Is your brother as clever as you? As kind? As thoughtful? As gentle? As bold? As witty? As spirited? As funny?" Jeyne would ask of every girl, changing the descriptions to fit the special virtues she had observed of each girl.

"My brother would make a poor consort to the ruling Lady of the Eyrie," Jessamyn had replied bluntly, when it was her turn to be asked the question. "He is not made to be any woman's consort. He would want to rule _through_ you, not _beside_ you."

"I will suffer no man to rule either through me or beside me, when I am of age," vowed Jeyne.

"But you will have to suffer a husband in your bed."

"Will I?"

"We must. Every woman must, whether she likes it or not," said Jessamyn, with heavy resignation.

"Even if she prefers a woman in her bed?"

"Even then. This is the world we reside in, and there is no other, not while we still draw breath."

 _Last night I dreamed of my last breath being drawn in your embrace, with your arms holding me tightly,_ thought Jeyne, the day Jessamyn left the Eyrie to be wed. _And now that could never happen._

A husband dead of a burst belly three years later brought Jessamyn back to the Eyrie, this time as Jeyne's lady-in-waiting. A gaggle of squabbling suitors intent on besting one another became Jeyne's best tool for avoiding matrimony. Conflicting rumors thrived and flourished about the Maiden of the Vale. Some said that she would not wed because she would rather have _ten_ men in her bed instead of only one. Other claimed that she would not wed because she would rather have ten _women_ in her bed instead of one man. The numbers seemed to increase with each passing year, and the supposed voraciousness of her sexual appetite became more exaggerated with each telling of the rumors.

She would not wed because she did not wish to risk becoming a husband's catspaw, and she had seen too many women brought down by a man's quest for glory. She would not wed because she only wanted one woman beside her, in her bed and elsewhere, the only person in the world she trusted to share all her secrets and all her troubles.

Both of those things were equally true for Jeyne Arryn.


	2. Jeyne Arryn & Arnold Arryn

" _Thrice have mine own kin sought to replace me," Lady Jeyne told Prince Jacaerys. "My cousin Ser Arnold is wont to say that women are too soft to rule. I have him in one of my sky cells, if you would like to ask him." (Fire & Blood)_

 _Far closer by blood was Lady Jeyne's first cousin, Ser Arnold Arryn, who had twice attempted to depose her. (Fire & Blood)_

* * *

 **Jeyne Arryn & Arnold Arryn**

"The first time you tried to incite a rebellion against me, I stripped you from your position as the Knight of the Bloody Gate, deprived you of the income I had previously granted your family to aid and honor my closest kin, and took your eldest son and your only daughter as my wards. I had assumed that you understood what _'wards'_ truly meant in that particular instance, but perhaps you did not."

Arnold scoffed. "I know what it means well enough. _Hostages_. My children are your hostages, taken to ensure my good conduct and my humble compliance."

"They were taken to ensure your _loyalty_ to the rightful Lady of the Eyrie, to whom you and your fellow conspirators had sworn an oath of allegiance. If you are aware that your eldest son and your only daughter are my hostages, why do you not keep to your promise never again to incite a rebellion against me, never again to try to depose me to put yourself in my place? Do you not care a whit about your children's fate? What sort of father are you, Cousin? Do you care more about usurping my place and becoming the Lord of the Eyrie than about the well-being of your own children?"

Arnold shrugged. "I have other sons. And my daughter, well … a daughter is only a daughter after all."

"How thoughtful of you. How glad your children would be to learn of their father's great love and tender care for them."

"Sharp tongues and biting words are the weapons of the _weak_. They are the weapons of _women_ , and women are too _soft_ to rule."

"Too soft to rule? Are you certain of that? Would you be willing to stake your life on it?"

"When our uncle Ronard tried to gain the lordship of the Eyrie for himself after your father's death, Yorbert Royce your regent and lord protector at the time swiftly had his head on a spike. You are too soft, Jeyne, too soft to rule, as all women are. The fact that I have a head still to make a _second_ attempt to depose you is proof enough of that. I know that you would not have the will or the audacity to kill my children, even if they _are_ your hostages. You have grown fond of them, but even if you have not, even if you despise them with all your heart because of what their father has done, the murder of children is not something you are capable of."

"You are a prisoner in my hall. Remember your place! You will address me as ' _my lady_ ' and nothing else. I will remind you that our uncle plotted to have me assassinated in my bed by my own nursemaid, and I was gravely wounded and almost died as a result. His punishment fitted his crime. Your first attempt to depose me did not injure my person. Had I taken your head then, men would holler from Gulltown to the mountains that the Lady of the Eyrie is a blood-thirsty, bloody-handed tyrant who is unfit to rule and must be replaced with a better ruler."

 _Allow me to give you this last piece of advice, my lady_ , the late Lord Royce had said to Jeyne on her sixteenth name day, the day he relinquished his position as regent and lord protector. _A woman must appear twice as strong as any man, and twice as resolved as any man, lest she be called weak and unfit to rule_. _It is an unfair and unjust burden to place on a female ruler, you are not wrong about that, but harping on the unfairness and injustice of it would not aid you in facing this difficult task ahead of you, my lady._

Jeyne had not forgotten Yorbert Royce's advice, but nor would she ignore her own conclusion based on years of close observations – that a woman's strength and resolve were more likely to be perceived as dangerous, threatening, cruel, depraved, malicious or tyrannical than a man's strength and resolve.

Ruling, for a woman, bore a very close resemblance to walking along a twisty, treacherous and very narrow path. Stray too close to one side, and you would be accused of being too soft and too weak to rule. Stray too close to the other side, and you would be accused of being too hard, of being a shrew, a harridan and a tyrannical ruler. The extremely difficult – nay, the near impossible – balancing act was one she could not and must not fail to achieve, if she hoped to remain as the Lady of the Eyrie. (And if she wished to ensure that _being_ the Lady of the Eyrie would not alter and transform her so radically and so fundamentally that she would no longer be able to recognize the woman she saw in the mirror each morning as _herself_ , as Jeyne Arryn.)

After careful deliberation, Jeyne Arryn, the Lady of the Eyrie, pronounced, "I will not take your head, Arnold, nor will I take your children's heads. Heads on spikes would rot and be forgotten in a matter of weeks. The sky cell will be your new home. I wish you all the best in it."


	3. Cregan Stark & Aegon III Targaryen

_Cregan had come into his lordship at thirteen upon the death of his father, Lord Rickon, in 121 AC. During his minority, his uncle Bennard had ruled the North as regent, but in 124 AC Cregan turned sixteen, only to find his uncle slow to surrender his power. (Fire & Blood)_

 _It is reliably reported that Lord Cregan Stark was also offered a place amongst [Aegon III's] regents, but refused. (Fire & Blood)_

* * *

They sat side-by-side on one of the steps leading to the king's personal suite of rooms in Maegor's Holdfast, a study in contrast in more ways than one. The former Hand's massive hand could easily cover the entirety of the king's face, to begin with. And Cregan Stark, normally not a man known for his volubility, was positively loquacious compared to the reserved and reticent boy sitting next to him.

 _The king is dead inside, too broken by all he had witnessed and suffered_. Cregan Stark had heard this sentiment whispered all too often during his presence in King's Landing, from the tongues of lordlings, squires and servant boys alike. He scoffed at the notion as nothing more than piffle and nonsense. The king had merely learned to hide his pain and his distress, Cregan believed, because that was what boys must do to become men.

And none of the people talking about "the broken king" seemed to have any interest in trying to help him or aid him in any way, in trying to heal his wounds. They seemed more interested in speculating about his fitness for the throne.

"Are you certain that you would not accept a place among my regents, Lord Stark?" the king asked, finally breaking his long silence.

"When I returned to you my chain of office as the King's Hand, you did not hesitate to accept it, and made no effort to convince me to remain as your Hand," Cregan pointed out. "What is so different this time?"

The king did not flush or blush, but answered simply, "I did not want you as my Hand. I never did."

Cregan laughed. "I suppose I did force and bluster my way into the position. But the war is well and truly over now, and my place is in the North. Winter has come, and I must be with my people."

After another long silence, the king finally said, "You told me when you first arrived in King's Landing that false friends were more dangerous to a king than any foe. Do you have any other advice to give me, Lord Stark, now that you are departing?"

"Advice regarding what? Sitting on the Iron Throne? You are asking the wrong man for that."

"Advice regarding regents. My sister Baela told me that you had a regent yourself, when you first became the Lord of Winterfell."

"I did, aye. He was only supposed to be my regent for three years, but –"

"But?"

"Put away your regents firmly, on the very day you turn six-and-ten. Dismiss them without any fear or hesitation; that is my advice to you. Thank them for their service, and dismiss each and every one of them. The longer you wait, the harder it would be. I was too overawed by my uncle for a time, and it took me the best part of two years after I came of age to wrestle power away from him completely."

Aegon stared at Lord Stark with unblinking eyes. Other boys might have gasped with amazement, or had their mouths wide open, but the king simply said, in a barely audible voice, "I could hardly imagine you being overawed by anyone, Lord Stark."

"That is because you have never met my uncle. Those green as summer grass southron lordlings calling themselves 'the Lads' would piss in their breeches at the sight of Bennard Stark. He was the most intimidating of men."

"More intimidating than yourself?" Aegon asked.

Cregan could have sworn that he saw a faint trace of a smile on the king's face, but it was gone almost immediately after it appeared. "More intimidating thanI was at six-and-ten," he replied.

"What happened when your uncle would not relinquish his power as your regent?"

"I struggled mightily with him for control of the North for two years. The last straw was when he arranged a betrothal for me with his niece by marriage, without my leave, without my consent. I already had someone in mind to be my wife, to be the Lady of Winterfell, and it was certainly not with my uncle's niece by marriage."

"What did you do then, Lord Stark?" asked Aegon.

"I threw my uncle in Winterfell's dungeon. And his three sons as well, when they objected and tried to incite the North to rise against me."

The king said nothing, lost in thought, or deep in contemplation.

Cregan continued, "The only one you could truly rely on is yourself. Put your faith in _yourself_ , in your own resilience."

"What if … what if I am not strong enough?"

"I did not say strength, Your Grace. I said _resilience_."


	4. Rhaena Targaryen x Elissa Farman

"Will it truly be fine?" asks Elissa, displaying a momentary timidity and hesitation that is most uncharacteristic of her. Oh, how her brother Franklyn would sneer and smirk with satisfaction, if he could see her now, with her feet seemingly stuck on the ground, unable to take another step forward, and her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles are turning red.

 _Not so high-spirited now, eh?_ Franklyn would taunt Elissa. _Not so bold and defiant now, are you, sweet sister?_

Well, thank the gods Franklyn is nowhere close in sight. Not that _he_ would be any bolder in this situation, wagers Elissa.

Rhaena raises her eyebrows. "Surely you are not afraid of this slender little thing? Androw told me that you sailed your first ship when you were four-and-ten, and later, you went as far north as Bear Island. He has never known anyone more fearless than his glorious sister, Androw said. It made me quite envious, truth be told. None of my own brothers had ever spoken so admiringly of me."

That "slender little thing" is a pale blue she-dragon, whose color matches the color of Elissa's eyes, Rhaena claims. A ship is one thing, but a dragon is something else altogether. A ship might sink to the bottom of the ocean, taking you and everyone else on board with it, but it could not burn your flesh or eat you alive. It could not –

"I am not afraid," denies Elissa. "I am merely being cautious. There is still much I want to do in this life, so many adventures I wish to experience. Falling from a dragon would put a crimp on those plans."

Rhaena smiles. "Do not worry. I have given others a ride on the back of Dreamfyre before, and they all live to tell the tale."

"Your late husband, you mean, before he claimed a dragon for himself? But he was the blood of the dragon, like yourself. And I am not. Perhaps she will find me … not to her liking? Perhaps she will … _reject_ me?"

"She will not. I am certain of that."

"But how could you be so certain?"

"She knows friends from foes."

" _How_ does she know it?"

"From me. From her rider. She feels what _I_ feel. She senses what _I_ sense."

"And what _do_ you feel?" asks Elissa, with a gaze that speaks a thousand words more than just those five.

Rhaena does not reply with words. She takes Elissa's hand, and helps her to mount Dreamfyre.

What Elissa feels when she wraps her hands around Rhaena's waist is, _This is right. This is true. This is how it should be. This is how I want it to be._

Dreamfyre soars, and with her, Elissa's heart.

She imagines herself sailing to the furthest lands beyond the Sunset Sea, while high up in the sky, Rhaena flies on the back of her dragon, traveling to the same direction. _We will conquer the sky and the sea both_ , dreams Elissa. Fair Isle will be their base on dry land, but the sea, the endless sea and the sky above that sea, will be their new home.


	5. Aegon III Targaryen

" _Orwyle was wont to call His Grace calm and self-possessed; I say the boy is dead inside. He walks the halls of the Red Keep like a ghost." (Fire & Blood)_

* * *

If he is dead inside, surely it would not hurt as much it does, still, every moment of every day, with every breath he draws and every breath he releases?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not see it again and again, all the carnages and the atrocities he wishes to un-see, all the things he wishes he had never seen in the first place?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not hear it again and again, all the screams and the pleadings he wishes to un-hear, all the things he wishes he had never heard in the first place?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not be forced to know it again and again, all the truths, half-truths and untruths he wishes to un-know, all the things he wishes he had never known in the first place?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not remember every detail of every loss and every demise?

If he is dead inside, surely he could forget … nay, surely he would have forgotten already?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not be continually assailed and assaulted by numerous strains of guilt – survivor's guilt, abandoner's guilt, and, worst of all, the guilt of an impotent boy who could neither save nor protect the ones he loves?

If he is dead inside, surely he would not be wishing that he, too, is a ghostly presence, alongside the mother he could not save, the brother he had not saved, and the cousin-wife he also failed to save?

Wounds rot and fester inside, without conferring any kind of immunity to pain.

Pain unseen is not pain unfelt.

Pain undisplayed is not pain unfelt.

Pain unshared is not pain unfelt.

Pain unprotested is not pain unfelt.

Pain ignored is not pain unfelt.

He is _not_ dead inside. That is his punishment and his salvation both, he believes.


End file.
